The White Lioness kw-3

by Henning Mankell

  Jan Kleyn nodded.

  Franz Malan gazed expectantly at the man opposite him.

  “Are you serious about this?” he asked slowly.

  Jan Kleyn looked at him in surprise.

  “Serious?”

  “That we should actually kill him?”

  “Of course I’m serious about it. The man will be liquidated before next summer. I’m thinking of calling it Operation Spriengboek.”

  “Why?”

  “Everything has to have a name. Have you ever shot an antelope? If you hit it in the right spot, it jumps into the air before it dies. That’s the jump I’m going to offer to the greatest enemy we have.”

  They sat up until dawn. Franz Malan could not help admiring the meticulous way in which Jan Kleyn had thought the whole thing through. The plan was daring without taking unnecessary risks. When they walked out onto the veranda at dawn to stretch their legs, Franz Malan voiced one last objection.

  “Your plan is excellent,” he said. “I can see only one possible snag. You are relying on Victor Mabasha not letting us down. You are forgetting he comes from the Zulu tribe. They are reminiscent of the boere in some respects. Their uttermost loyalty is given to themselves and the ancestors they worship. That means you are placing an enormous amount of faith in a black man. You know they can never feel the same loyalty we do. Presumably you are right. He will become a rich man. Richer than he could ever have dreamed of. But still, the plan means we are relying on a black man.”

  “You can have my answer right away,” said Jan Kleyn. “I don’t trust anybody at all. Not completely, at least. I trust you. But I’m aware that everybody has a weak point somewhere or other. I replace this lack of trust by being extra cautious. That naturally applies to Victor Mabasha as well.”

  “The only person you trust is yourself,” said Franz Malan.

  “Yes,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll never find the weak point you’re speaking of in me. Of course Victor Mabasha will be under constant scrutiny. And I’ll make sure he knows that. He’ll get some special training by one of the world’s leading experts on assassination. If he lets us down, he will know he can look forward to a slow and painful death so awful, he’d wish he’d never been born. Victor Mabasha knows the meaning of torture. He will understand what we expect of him.”

  A few hours later they separated and drove off in their different directions.

  Four months later the plan was firmly established among a group of conspirators who had sworn a solemn oath of silence.

  The plan was becoming a reality.

  When the car came to a halt outside the house on the hill, Franz Malan tethered the dogs. Victor Mabasha, terrified of German shepherds, remained in the car until he was certain he would not be attacked. Jan Kleyn was on the veranda to receive him. Victor Mabasha could not resist the temptation to hold out his hand. But Jan Kleyn ignored it and asked instead how the journey had been.

  “When you’re sitting in a bus all night, you have time to think up any number of questions,” Victor Mabasha replied.

  “Excellent,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll get all the answers you need.”

  “Who decides that?” asked Victor Mabasha. “What I need or don’t need to know?”

  Before Jan Kleyn could reply, Franz Malan emerged from the shadows. He did not offer his hand either.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Jan Kleyn. “We have a lot to talk about, and time is short.”

  “I’m Franz,” said Franz Malan. “Put your hands up over your head.”

  Victor did not protest. It was one of the unwritten rules that you gave up your weapons before negotiations could begin. Franz Malan took his pistol and then examined the knives.

  “They were made by an African armorer,” said Victor Mabasha. “Excellent both for close combat and throwing.”

  They went inside and sat down at the table with the green felt cloth. The driver went to make coffee in the kitchen.

  Victor Mabasha waited. He hoped the two men would not notice how tense he was.

  “A million rand,” said Jan Kleyn. “Let’s start at the end just this once. I want you to bear in mind the whole time how much we’re offering you for this job we want you to do for us.”

  “A million can be a lot or very little,” said Victor Mabasha. “It depends on the circumstances. And who’s ‘we’?”

  “Save your questions for later,” said Jan Kleyn. “You know me, you know you can trust me. You can regard Franz, sitting opposite you, as an extension of my arm. You can trust him just as much as you can trust me.”

  Victor Mabasha nodded. He understood. The game had started. Everybody was assuring everybody else how reliable they were. In fact, nobody trusted anybody but themselves.

  “We thought we’d ask you to do a little job for us,” repeated Jan Kleyn, making it sound to Victor Mabasha’s ears as though he was asking him to get a glass of water. “Who ‘we’ are in this context doesn’t matter as far as you’re concerned.”

  “A million rand,” said Victor Mabasha. “Let’s assume that’s a lot of money. I take it you want me to kill somebody for you. A million is too much for such an assignment. So let’s assume it’s too little-what’s the explanation?”

  “How the hell can a million be too little?” asked Franz Malan in annoyance.

  Jan Kleyn made a deprecatory gesture.

  “Let’s just say it’s good money for an intense but brief assignment,” he said.

  “You want me to kill somebody,” Victor Mabasha repeated.

  Jan Kleyn looked at him for a long time before replying. Victor Mabasha suddenly felt as if a cold wind was blowing through the room.

  “That’s right,” said Jan Kleyn slowly. “We want you to kill somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll find out when the time is ripe,” said Jan Kleyn.

  Victor Mabasha suddenly felt uneasy. It ought to be the obvious first move, giving him the most important piece of information. Who he would be aiming his gun at.

  “This is a very special assignment,” Jan Kleyn went on. “It will involve travel, perhaps a month of preparations, rehearsals, and extreme caution. Let me just say it’s a man we want you to eliminate. An important man.”

  “A South African?” asked Victor Mabasha.

  Jan Kleyn hesitated for a moment before replying.

  “Yes,” he said. “A South African.”

  Victor Mabasha tried to work out quickly who it could be. But there was a lot he did not know. And who was this fat, sweaty man sitting silently and hunched up in the shadows on the other side of the table? Victor Mabasha had a vague feeling he recognized him. Had he met him before? If so, in what connection? Had he seen his photograph in a newspaper? He searched his memory frantically, but in vain.

  The driver put out some cups and saucers, and placed the coffeepot in the middle of the green cloth. Nobody said a word until he left the room and closed the door behind him.

  “In about ten days we want you to leave South Africa,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll go straight back to Ntibane. Tell everybody you know there you’re going to Botswana to work for an uncle who has an ironmonger’s store in Gaborone. You’ll be receiving a letter postmarked in Botswana, offering you a job. Show people this letter as often as you can. On April 15, in a week, you’ll take the bus to Johannesburg. You’ll be picked up at the bus station and spend the night in an apartment, where you’ll meet me in order to receive your final instructions. The next day you’ll fly to Europe, and then on to St. Petersburg. Your passport will say you’re from Zimbabwe, and you’ll have a new name. You can choose one yourself. When you get to St. Petersburg you’ll be met at the airport. You’ll take the train to Finland, and go from there to Sweden by boat. You’ll stay in Sweden for a few weeks. You’ll meet somebody there who’ll give you your most important instructions. On a date as yet unfixed you’ll return to South Africa. Once you’re back here, I’ll take over responsibility for the final phase. It’ll be all over by the
end of June at the latest. You can collect your money wherever you like in the world. You’ll be paid an advance of 100,000 rand as soon as you’ve agreed to carry out this little assignment we have lined up for you.”

  Jan Kleyn stared intently at him in silence. Victor Mabasha wondered if his ears had deceived him. St. Petersburg? Finland? Sweden? He tried to conjure up a map of Europe in his mind’s eye, but failed.

  “I have just one question,” he said after a while. “What’s this all about?”

  “It shows we are cautious and meticulous,” said Jan Kleyn. “You ought to appreciate that, because it’s a guarantee for your own safety.”

  “I can look after myself,” said Victor Mabasha dismissively. “But let’s start from the beginning. Who’ll be meeting me in St. Petersburg?”

  “As you may know, the Soviet Union has undergone big changes these last few years,” said Jan Kleyn. “Changes we’re all very pleased about. But on the other hand, it has meant that a lot of very efficient people are out of a job. Including officers in the secret police, the KGB. We get a constant stream of inquiries from these people, wondering if we’re interested in their skills and experience. In many cases there’s no limit to what they’ll do in order to get a residence permit in our country.”

  “I’m not working with the KGB,” said Victor Mabasha. “I don’t work with anybody. I’ll do whatever I have to do, and I’ll do it alone.”

  “Quite right, too,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll be working on your own. But you’ll get some very useful tips from our friends who’ll be picking you up in St. Petersburg. They’re very good.”

  “Why Sweden?”

  Jan Kleyn took a sip of coffee.

  “A good question, and a natural one to ask,” he began. “In the first place, it’s a diversionary measure. Even if nobody in this country who’s not involved has any idea what’s going on, it’s a good idea to put out a few smoke screens. Sweden is a neutral, insignificant little country, and has always been very aggressively opposed to our social system. It would never occur to anybody that the lamb would hide away in the wolf’s lair. Second, our friends in St. Petersburg have some good contacts in Sweden. It’s very easy to get into the country because the border controls are pretty casual, if indeed there are any at all. Many of our Russian friends have already established themselves in Sweden, with false names and false papers. Third, we have some reliable friends who can arrange appropriate living quarters for us in Sweden. But most important of all, perhaps, is that you keep well away from South Africa. There are far too many people interested in knowing what a fellow like me is up to. A plan can be exposed.”

  Victor Mabasha shook his head.

  “I have to know who it is I’m going to kill,” he said.

  “When the time is ripe,” said Jan Kleyn. “Not before. Let me conclude by reminding you of a conversation we had nearly eight years ago. You said then that it’s possible to kill anybody at all, provided you plan it properly. The bottom line is that nobody can get away. And now I’m waiting for your answer.”

  That was the moment it dawned on Victor Mabasha whom he was going to kill.

  The thought sent him reeling. But it all fit. Jan Kleyn’s irrational hatred of blacks, the increasing liberalization of South Africa.

  An important man. They wanted him to shoot President de Klerk.

  His first reaction was to say no. It would be taking too big a risk. How could he possibly get past all the bodyguards surrounding the president night and day? How could he possibly escape afterward? President de Klerk was a target for an assassin who was prepared to die in a suicide attack.

  At the same time he could not deny he still believed what he had said to Jan Kleyn eight years ago. Nobody in the world was immune from a skilled assassin.

  And a million rand. Mind-boggling. He couldn’t refuse.

  “Three hundred thousand in advance,” he said. “I want it in a London bank by the day after tomorrow at the latest. I want the right to refuse to go along with the final plan if I consider it to be too risky. In that case you would have the right to require me to work out an alternative. In those circumstances I’ll take it on.”

  Jan Kleyn smiled.

  “Excellent,” he said. “I knew you would.”

  “I want my passport made out in the name of Ben Travis.”

  “Of course. A good name. Easy to remember.”

  There was a plastic file on the floor next to Jan Kleyn’s chair. He took out a letter postmarked in Botswana and handed it over to Victor Mabasha.

  “There’s a bus to Johannesburg from Umtata at six in the morning on April 15. That’s the one we want you to take.”

  Jan Kleyn and the man who said his name was Franz got to their feet.

  “We’ll take you back home by car,” said Jan Kleyn. “As time is short, you’d better go tonight. You can sleep in the back seat.”

  Victor Mabasha nodded. He was in a hurry to get home. A week was not long for him to sort out all the things he needed to do. Such as finding out who this Franz really was.

  Now his own safety was on the line. It needed all his concentration.

  They parted on the veranda. This time Victor Mabasha did not hold out his hand. His weapons were returned, and he got into the back seat of the car.

  President de Klerk, he thought. Nobody can escape. Not even you.

  Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan remained on the veranda, watching the car lights disappear.

  “I think you’re right,” said Franz Malan. “I think he’ll do it.”

  “Of course he’ll do it,” Jan Kleyn replied. “Why do you think I chose the best?”

  Franz Malan stared thoughtfully up at the stars.

  “Do you think he realized who the target was?”

  “I think he guessed it was de Klerk,” said Jan Kleyn. “That would be the obvious person.”

  Franz Malan turned away from the stars and looked straight at Jan Kleyn.

  “That was what you wanted him to do, wasn’t it? Guess?”

  “Of course,” Jan Kleyn replied. “I never do anything by chance. And now I think we’d better go our separate ways. I have an important meeting in Bloemfontein tomorrow.”

  On April 17 Victor Mabasha flew to London under the name of Ben Travis. By then he knew who Franz Malan was. That had also convinced him the target was President de Klerk. In his suitcase he had a few books about de Klerk. He knew he would have to find out as much about him as possible.

  The next day he flew to St. Petersburg. He was met there by a man called Konovalenko.

  Two days later a ferry pulled into the docks at Stockholm. After a long car journey southwards, he came to a remote cottage late in the evening. The man driving the car spoke excellent English, even though he did have a Russian accent.

  On Monday April 20 Victor Mabasha woke up at dawn. He went out into the yard to relieve himself. A mist lay motionless over the fields. He shivered in the chilly air.

  Sweden, he thought. You are welcoming Ben Travis with fog, cold, and silence.

  Chapter Nine

  Foreign Minister Pik Botha was first to notice the snake.

  It was almost midnight and most members of the South African government had said goodnight and withdrawn to their bungalows. The only ones left around the campfire were President de Klerk, Foreign Minister Botha, Home Secretary Vlok and his private secretary, plus a few of the security men handpicked by the president and his cabinet. They were all officers who had pledged special oaths of allegiance and secrecy to de Klerk personally. Further away, barely visible from the campfire, some black servants were hovering in the shadows.

  It was a green mamba, and difficult to see as it lay motionless at the edge of the flickering light. The foreign minister would probably never have noticed it had he not bent forward to scratch his ankle. He started when he caught sight of the snake, then just sat motionless. He had learned early in life that a snake can only see and attack moving objects.

  “There is a poisonous
snake two meters away from my feet,” he said in a low voice.

  President de Klerk was deep in thought. He had adjusted his lounger so that he could stretch out in a semi-recumbent position. As usual he was sitting some distance away from his colleagues. It had struck him some time ago that his ministers never placed their chairs too close to him when they were gathered around the campfire, in order to show their respect. That suited him perfectly. President de Klerk was a man who often felt a burning necessity to be on his own.

  The foreign secretary’s words slowly sunk in and intruded into his thoughts. He turned to look at his foreign secretary’s face in the light of the dancing flames.

  “Did you say something?” he asked.

  “There is a green poisonous snake by my feet,” said Pik Botha once again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a big mamba.”

  President de Klerk sat up slowly in his chair. He hated snakes. He had an almost pathological fear of crawling animals in general. Back at the presidential residence, the servants knew they had to make a meticulous search of every nook and cranny every day for spiders, beetles, or any other insects. The same applied to those who cleaned the president’s office, his cars, and the cabinet offices.

  He slowly craned his neck and located the snake. He felt sick immediately.

  “Kill it,” he said.

  The home secretary had fallen asleep in his lounger, and his private secretary was listening to music in his headphones. One of the bodyguards slowly drew a knife he had stuck in his belt, and struck at the snake with unerring accuracy. The mamba’s head was severed from its body. The bodyguard picked up the snake’s body, still thrashing from side to side, and flung it into the fire. To his horror de Klerk saw how the snake’s head, still lying on the ground, was opening and closing its mouth, displaying its fangs. He felt even worse and was overcome by dizziness, as if about to faint. He leaned back quickly in his chair and closed his eyes.